


Sober

by newmoons



Category: Overwatch 2 - Fandom, overwatch
Genre: F/F, OVW - Freeform, Overwatch - Freeform, Overwatch 2, ovw2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:29:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21664489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newmoons/pseuds/newmoons
Summary: Sobriety from love can hurt, and Lena Oxton would know.
Relationships: Tracer X Widowmaker, amelia lacroix x lena oxton, lena oxton x amelie lacroix, widowmaker x tracer
Kudos: 21





	Sober

She could feel her heart pounding in her chest as she lay, but its valiant effort to protect her from no present danger was not enough to detract from the sickness that churned in her chest and threatened vomit every minute. She knew she missed someone, but she did not need to know who.

She attributed this to her sin, to the amount of time Widowmaker had taken siege of her thoughts in the darkness of her room despite her not belonging there, in any sense. Lena was Overwatch and Widowmaker was Talon— they had a bloodied history that did not stop between them. No, their history was even more complex, with lips clashing in the cover of night and stares flashing against gold in some confrontation she would never live without again.

Her time with Widowmaker had come to an abrupt end when the woman had disappeared, and each day without her could find no distraction no matter what she did. Training did not distract her mind from the gnawing in her chest that seemed to wear away at her bones with each useless hit of the bag before her. She held her knees and rocked as she tried to beg her god to relieve her from what she did not want, from the sordid attraction that brought her to her knees in her bed as hard as her eyes were closed to this simplicity: attraction.

She could not relieve the pain with any assurance, however, as some lovers— and they were not, were not, were not— might, in the spiraling intricacies of missing someone. No, Widow didn’t miss her too. Widow didn’t want to see her. Widow wouldn’t think of her as Lena spent her nights twisted in pain with no reprieve from her prayers. Lena knew that, and it only added to the immense build in her flooded chest, up her throat and choking her when no words would offer salvation regardless.

Pain flooded her system as if physically, as if a bullet lined with her error had ripped through the useless organ in her chest and spread to every vein in her body, every cell, every breath— god, every breath. She could find no relief in the dark, which posed to her a heaviness and intimacy she must have known, should have been prepared for, but each night without a body beside her ached and ached and ached.

How was this healthy? Without Widow, each day had been a meaningless wait till the next, and with no appearance left her chasing for an answer to the emptiness she could only fill in the woman’s presence, with some reprieve in what little shards of shattered reciprocation she could get. It was enough, it was enough. But it did nothing now, as she kept herself still with her teeth clenched and a hand over her chest, attempting a pressure to make sure she was alive. How could she be? She couldn’t breathe right, couldn’t open her eyes to the darkness again and see no one, nothing, as she always had. She shuddered and curled in again, the exhale begging to be reprieved with the contents of her stomach, which was little in the face of her day.

She had not left her room as often as she did: only to attempt training with the most difficult of Overwatch men to appease the physical pacing that filled the corners of her room: from the window to the doorway, and back again. She figured the physical exertion might release some chemicals she had long since been deprived of, but it did not last, did not work, did not need to.

She inhaled this time. A shaky thing and useless, it only filled her chest with more churning waters dark in their attempt and color to drown her, drown her, drown her. If this was attraction, Lena had only ever been right to deny herself its embrace.

How could she have ever desired something so painful? It only eroded at her to her very core, which to her knowledge was no more salvageable than the rest of her. She could not feel the cold that permeated the room from the open window— in all her training she had never been spiritual, but in some desperation she believed she could clear the energy around her with fresh air— but rather was too preoccupied with the hurricane at her throat, the pressure that did not relieve, the moments she waited for a ringing in the hallways to see Widow appear at her doorway. For what? She shook her head and turned it to groan into the pillow, sick, sick, sick at heart and suffering, suffering for a woman who held no interest in her but for a moment. 

She lifted herself to sit up, one arm bent over a knee while the other pushed unruly hair from deadened and anguished eyes, burning with a fire that was consuming the rest of her soul. It was funny, how the dichotomy could play itself out. She was burning and drowning at the same time, but no one dared to plunge their hands into either to grip her and pull her out.

Lena didn’t want to leave Widow, or whatever semblance of something they had. She didn’t want to believe that was the only option, but whose help could she define? She herself did not admit her attraction. It did not help that missions had evaded her, with no work to distract herself.

That brought the question, would the soldier now ever be able to prioritize her work and destroy her enemy as Overwatch wanted, or would she fail herself both? She imagined only truth could hurt far worse than this imagining, this projection of what little was visible in her. But what could she do, what could she do? There was no leaving Overwatch, not without leave order.

She gripped her shirt above her heart and twisted the material, a sob running through her body as tears built in her eyes, spilling onto the pillow that scratched at her ears and neck and pulled at her hair in a way no lover ever would, ever would. What could it be? What could it be? She rushed to the bathroom, throwing her blanket off her shuddering form, as she realized.

It was something like obsession, something like… love.


End file.
